


Adrenaline

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Book 4: Pawn in Frankincense, Cyanide poisoning, F/M, Gen, Pining, Prison, the band Au, the dona maria scene...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Jerott is rescued from the drunk tank by a blistering performance from Doña María. A follow-up toDelirium.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Relationships: Jerott Blyth/Marthe (Lymond Chronicles)
Kudos: 3
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Adrenaline

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, October 13 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188315109709/whumptober-13-adrenaline-a-sequel-of-sorts-to)

The sight that greeted him when he stepped out of the cell was nearly enough to floor Jerott Blyth all over again. He felt the sweat prickle on his spine anew; his exhausted heart was whipped back into frenzied life; his mouth was dry as if he had not just been given water to refresh himself in the wake of that awful night.

Logically, he knew he ought to tell her to run - to get as far away from him as possible and not get herself implicated in the fire and the neon screaming of emergency lights that had ended with Jerott passed out in the dirt and dragged into the drunk tank. But she knew that anyway - she would never have consented to be his saviour of her own choice. Whatever resentment she harboured, whatever Francis had bribed or threatened her with, she channelled it into her performance.

White cowboy boots gave way to smooth tanned knees and a lot more thigh than expected before the hem of a tight black miniskirt. The skirt itself was almost concealed by an oversized white jacket that funnelled up to absurd, vast shoulder pads. Cascades of costume jewellery covered her cleavage and the black lace turtleneck below, layered over by the ripened cornsilk of long, loose hair. She held a demure power pose: knees knocked together, gloved hands on hips, chin tilted high so that the wide-brimmed hat framed her face like a saint’s halo. An expression of disdain completed the look, accompanied by dark tortoiseshell-framed shades and vivid red lipstick.

“¿Que pasa aquí?” she demanded of the shell-shocked police. The question was a whip-crack that made their spines straighten.

He had been warned. Francis had bribed his way in just to tell him that this would happen: to tell him to keep quiet and calm and not to show a bit of surprise. So if Jerott’s thoughts were compromised by the sight of her and the sound of that command, the police did not stand a chance. She went through them like a bowling ball, clicking her satin-gloved fingers and issuing staccato orders in Spanish. The telenovela actress known as Doña María was here to get her bodyguard back and she would not hear a word against it.

Smoothly, glibly, unfaltering in the foreign language, Marthe sewed lies together that the officers could not object to.

_The lie of the awakened one is far more than the truth of the sleeping one_, Jerott thought. His hands shook, withdrawal reminding him of its presence - a presence of absence - and despite it all he wished he still had his mala to focus his fearful thoughts. His mala or a bottle of bourbon.

Doña María spread green bills around liberally. She upbraided the police and she upbraided Jerott. One gloved hand cuffed the back of his head and tested the bounds of his fragile hold on himself, bringing black spots to his vision. But the grip that then took him by the arm was steadying and adrenaline poured into his shattered nervous system as they walked, unchallenged, towards the door.

He stumbled once on the uneven surface of the car-park.

“Come on,” Marthe murmured. She had to wait for him, tense as a prey animal, while Jerott gathered his shaking body and focussed on the vehicle ahead. Behind the wheel he recognised Francis Crawford beneath a crisp new Stetson and dark round glasses, and though his skin seemed to crawl with anxiety given physical form, the hope that that car represented was enough to get him moving again.

Once inside, he sprawled against the back seat and waited for the hiss of the tyres on sandy bitumen. Marthe clambered in beside him and his gasping breaths seemed to give heightened power to the thrift store mothballs-and-washing-powder smell of her clothes.

“Open the window, Christ,” he managed to rasp.

With an air of professional impatience, Marthe leaned across him to wind down the window on his side of the car. Jerott’s eyes wandered sluggishly after her, mesmerised as she shed her gloves, hat and sunglasses, tossing them into the trunk behind their seats. The beads and chains followed and then the jacket until she remained in form-fitting black, wiping the lipstick off on the back of her hand.

“What?” her blue eyes blazed. A smudge of oily red remained just to the side of her mouth.

He shook his head and grimaced.

“You smell like marzipan.” Marthe told him. “That stuff is still all over you. Lymond, we need to stop somewhere with a shower.”

Jerott laughed, coughed, and winced at the howl of pain inside his skull and chest.

“Is something funny?”

He shrugged. “It might as well be. You almost sound worried.”

“I’d simply rather avoid secondary cyanide poisoning,” Marthe said sniffily.

**Author's Note:**

> Read on: [Asphyxiation.](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Whumptober2019_BandAU/works/21382306)


End file.
